


Soulmates and Temper Tantrums

by Tharhi



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Friendship, Gen, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tharhi/pseuds/Tharhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf had once said, at the very beginning of the quest before Bilbo had signed anything, that if Bilbo returned, he would not be the same Hobbit as the one who left. Perhaps Gandalf had the gift of foresight or perhaps he just knew a thing or two about adventures. Either way, he was quite correct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soulmates and Temper Tantrums

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Prompt: Soulmates with a Twist](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/68247) by Anonymous. 



> This started from a prompt asking for platonic soul mates Thorin/Bilbo which I was all over. I loved it. Then I started writing it and this is what happened. I started this while sick and am publishing it before I chicken out, so sorry about mistakes. Also, it’s important to note this is all through Bilbo’s POV, so everything is shaded by his own opinion.
> 
> There is a mix of book and movie, but I don’t really go into much detail having assumed you have read the book (or wikis) and watched the movie. I tended to go with events taking longer than the movie implied and that the Dwarves were separated in the dungeons of Mirkwood.

The great Ballads are full of romance and fading and irresistible pulls.

Elves were willing to wait centuries for their true soul. Men were full of histories of war and great quests in the name of their mates. Dwarves longed for completion only found in their Ones. Even the Shire was full of juicy gossip and passed down tales. 

Bilbo was quite proud to be the outcome of such a match. A grin would take over his face any time he heard the comments, cheeks hurting before he realized it. A laugh would bubble up when his play mates complained about their own argumentative parents. In the cold of winter, he’d cuddle under a blanket with a drink of warm chocolate in hand as his parents would smile and discuss their courtship.

Once upon a time, Bilbo couldn’t wait to meet his own soul mate. To stare into their eyes and just know, or for their skin to meet and feel a spark, or be browsing the market and have the back of his neck tickle. 

Then one cold, terrible winter his mother died and his father withered away before his eyes. And Bilbo began to notice the bittersweet ending to the Elven songs. The death count in the histories of Man. The rumors of dwarves who never marry. The rolling of eyes about the Shire.

More than that, he’d remember his parents first meeting. The birthday party of some Took where they barely even noticed the other. The laughter over how at first, Bungo’s love of books annoyed Belladonna and Belladonna’s habits of tracking mud everywhere drove Bungo crazy. How tears were as common as laughter. How his father whispered late one night, his mother long asleep, that the first time Belladonna disappeared on one of her walking holidays Bungo had cried himself to sleep for thinking he’d never measure up. How his mother had hugged him and murmured in his ear, father lost in a book, that she almost never came back for fear Bungo would think her too wild.

There was no such thing as soul mates. Just stories of lovers others romanticized. And so Bilbo went on with life, a childhood dream of soul mates shattered, but feeling very mature about it all.

Though he did not know it at the time, everything changed the night a wizard and thirteen dwarves descended upon his home.

 

 

Bilbo was the very image of respectability. He ate a solid seven meals a day. Never turned away a guest knocking at the door. Wore a tailored outfit over his perfectly plump belly. Kept his feet carefully groomed and toes neatly trimmed. And most respectable of all, threw a grand birthday party every year and never failed to give every guest, even the uninvited ones, a gift.

At times, which occurred very rarely, when the breeze carries a faint scent of salt or the fog blankets the hills in early morning, Bilbo felt a stirring deep inside. For a moment he’d feel the need to move or a strange hunger for more. Typically, if he sat very still the feeling would die and he’d go back to his book or shopping or baking. Twice, he’d given in to the feeling and let his feet wander to the very edge of the Shire before common sense would call him back.

It wasn’t a sentiment he’d share with anyone else and it surely wasn’t a rumor he wanted spread about, but a part of him was very disappointed he never fully gave in to the desire.

That part of him was very much non-existent when Gandalf cheerfully introduced the dwarves piled on the ground at his feet. Bilbo watched with horror and dread as the dwarves stood up and dusted themselves off, passing by him directly to the kitchen, and never wished so desperately that he could hide beneath his covers as right then.

“This is unacceptable,” Bilbo muttered, eyes wide as the dwarves went about rearranging his smial with nary a question. “This is disgraceful,” he moaned, watching a plate half eaten knocked to the floor. “I will not have it,” he decided, flinching at every dish thrown through the air to that horrid beat.

The silence at the knock was almost as disturbing as it was relieving. Two hours later, finally huddled under his covers and echoes of the haunting melody in his head, Bilbo closed his eyes with a sad resignation. Despite his best efforts and his determination that the dratted wizard would not get away with ruining his life, the last dwarf had been quite unintentionally, remarkably convincing. Not a single kind word and yet Master Oakenshield’s very presence seemed to waken the wanderlust in Bilbo. Even after hearing of the dragon, Master Oakenshield’s sneering disbelief was a challenge Bilbo couldn’t resist.

It would seem he was going on an adventure, pulled along kicking and screaming whether he wanted it or not.

 

 

Thorin Oakenshield was a rude, unmannered, whiny brat if one asked Bilbo. He tended to stare broodily off into the distance while his dwarves set up camp around him. He would demand the first bowl of any meal no matter his lack of effort in cooking or hunting or tending or basically anything happening around camp. Whenever something wasn’t exactly as he wanted he’d complain pointlessly until someone else came along and fixed it.

Bilbo had no idea how he got twelve dwarves agree to a quest to their deaths, not to mention a rather respectable Hobbit to do it.

“Master Oakenshield, you might find dinner comes a little faster if you would help gather the firewood,” Bilbo said through gritted teeth. He was beyond done with the leader’s attitude and so wrapped up in his annoyance that it took a couple seconds to realize the entire camp had gone silent. Looking up from adding freshly cleaned roots to the pot sitting beside where the fire was meant to go, Bilbo noticed everyone glancing between him and Thorin. Thorin, meanwhile, had finally shut up and was looking thoughtfully at the lack of fire.

A sudden spike of fear caused all the hair on his arms to stand up as even Dwalin, the most intimidating of the dwarves, seemed to be holding his breath. Unable to help himself, Bilbo continued, “You’ll find it’s a little easier if you look around the base of trees over there, rather than staying at camp.” As he spoke, Bilbo waved the hand still holding a root to the right, where the edge of the forest was.

His words prodded Thorin into action. The dwarf stood slowly, nodded once, and wandered off. Bilbo quietly took a breath, feeling a little woozy. At the dwarves looks, he curtly said, “He’s not a child.” The dwarves of the company very carefully said nothing, and no one sat near him at dinner that night.

 

 

Covered in something he refused to recognize, shoulders aching from the unnatural stress from earlier, and tied and stuffed in a sack, Bilbo suddenly realized why these dwarves might be willing to follow Thorin to death. Never mind the rather pretty story about battle that he was mostly convinced was completely over embellished. No. Thorin hadn’t even hesitated to throw down his weapon. And for him! Just proven to not be any kind of burglar at all. Caught twice and the cause of their lost horses. 

Stuck in a sack Bilbo was finally willing to admit that while Thorin might have lacked common courtesy, he certainly knew how to handle himself in any form of battle for better or worse. After such a generous action Bilbo could admit Thorin had been doing slightly more than merely ignoring setting up camp. He knew exactly where in camp to hover or stare to calm arguments and smooth out problems. It showed Thorin had the instinct and training for leading.

It woke a longing in Bilbo to see Thorin crowned, to see him in his element at the lead and everyone else hopping to obey. For Thorin to be given the respect he deserved, rather than the disdain wandering dwarves received. Which was all rather ridiculous, considering in less than an hour they’d all likely be dead.

For only the third time in his life, Bilbo felt a stirring within him and found himself struggling to his feet. 

 

 

He took it all back. Thorin was nothing more than a giant child. 

“They’re just elves,” Bilbo muttered to Bifur, who hummed as he reached for another leaf to munch on. Bilbo found Bifur quite receptive to his rants. The dwarf was happy to sit and listen and make random noises in appropriate spaces. Occasionally, the dwarf would even mutter something in the harsh language of dwarves or wave his hands about. Bilbo always apologized, unsure of what Bifur was saying, but as the dwarf didn’t leave assumed it was safe to keep talking.

“Quite nice of them really, to give us any food at all. It’s not like they were expecting us,” Bilbo continued, rather enjoying breakfast. “He’s acting like a fauntling asked to visit family he didn’t like. All dark looks and grumpy faces and refusing to eat, as if the elves care whether he eats or not. Yes, he was rather gallant when he saved my life, but that only gets so much forgiveness and goodwill from me. It’s like he forgets he’s asking me to head directly into the lair of a fire breathing dragon. I would rather think he wants my respect or I might decide not to do it at all. Then what would he do? All the way to this lonely mountain and he’d be out a burglar, which I should remind you I am not, in fact, a burglar at all.” 

Bifur grunted, which Bilbo took as agreement. “I don’t know why anyone thinks I’m a burglar either,” Bilbo said, shaking his head. “Well, I feel quite rude taking advantage of you like this Bifur, but I do appreciate your kind ears. If I can ever return the favor, and you don’t mind my complete lack of understanding, just search me out.” Bilbo patted Bifur’s shoulder then left the table.

 

 

Face hard against the rock, scared to move for fear of finding his body less whole than he wanted, Bilbo tried to stop his gasping breath. Wet and miserable, terrified beyond belief, Bilbo had no idea what he was going to do. 

He had been getting along with the dwarves so well too. Bilbo would sit beside Dori and watch as Nori tried simultaneously to sit close to his older brother while ignoring his existence. Dori would just hum a little louder and wink at Bilbo. Other times Bilbo would watch as Kili and Fili tried to cheer everyone up, going above and beyond and tending to just annoy everyone until Bofur would plop down beside them and smooth everything out. Very recently, Bilbo had been braving walking next to Gloin during the day. In return, the dwarf would talk about some of the legends dwarves told their children within which, without fail, elves would be the source of all problems, no matter how unrelated they were to the tale.

Bilbo tried to shift a little and froze as he heard dragging noises. The glow from his sword was fading. 

What would Thorin do in such a situation? Likely charge out there and take on the unknown with a fierce growl. Their leader waffled back and forth between strong leader and childish behavior. It was like he didn’t know how to interact with people on a day to day basis and was making it up as he went along. If so, Bilbo wanted to let him know he was rather bad at making things up.

The glow was gone, and so was the sound.

Terrified to make noise and bring back the goblin killing thing, Bilbo focused on the strangely comforting image of Thorin pouting at the carrot served during their last meal in Rivendell. It had been a fleeting thing, like Thorin had realized all the elves were staring at him and a glower was a more dwarf appropriate look. Bilbo’s fear was also fleeting, or at least, he could pretend it was. 

Was he not Bilbo Baggins, farthest Hobbit from the shire? Had he not stalled the trolls long enough to save their lives? Had he not shared a table with Lord Elrond? Had he not just survived Thorin during his full on childish temper tantrum when Bilbo had nearly fallen off the cliff?

What was some darkness and the unknown in comparison to that?

If nothing else, the self given pep talk got Bilbo moving and once he was moving it was too late, he had to go forward. 

The fact he couldn’t go back had nothing to do with it.

 

 

“Hello Bifur, how are you-“ Bilbo halted as Thorin thudded into place next to him, “oh.”

“Oh?” Thorin grunted. “Would you prefer Bifur? I wasn’t aware you could understand him.”

Bilbo sniffed, a hug did not make a friend, not even in the nearly shire like land around the shapeshifter’s home. Bilbo liked to think that after all he’s gone through the bit of peace they were experiencing wouldn’t disarm him and make him forget how volatile Thorin was. “That does not mean we can’t be friendly.”

“But you don’t want to be friendly with me,” Thorin stated. 

“Friendly with you?” Bilbo couldn’t help repeating, “It sounds like an tween’s attempt to ask someone out on a date, which I dearly hope you weren’t just doing.” Thorin snorted, so Bilbo assumed he was safe, “And it’s not that I don’t want to be friendly, but I get the feeling you don’t understand how interaction between sentients happen and I don’t really care for your temper.”

A cloud drifted overhead, blocking out the sun and Bilbo shivered. Fall was just around the corner.

Thorin shifted after a couple minutes, “My temper?” He was calm, a hint of curiosity to his tone. Bilbo felt no threat, though curiously, he rarely did with Thorin. 

“Well, tantrums really,” Bilbo corrected.

“What are we even talking about at this point?” Thorin asked. He had plucked a flower and was destroying it petal by petal.

Bilbo stole the flower, gently twirling it. The sun came back out and he squinted in the brighter light. “We’re talking about the fact you don’t know how to interact with people. You’re a good leader, good enough at least but you keep messing up when you have to deal with us in a non-leader way.”

Thorin made to stand and without thinking, Bilbo grabbed his wrist and pulled. A little surprisingly, Thorin let himself sit again with only a small huff of pain. “This is part of dealing with people, not running away.”

“I deal with people just fine,” Thorin finally said. To Bilbo’s ears he was saying _I have no idea what I’m doing._ “But you asking me to get firewood was the most effective tactic to disarm the company I tried.”

It took Bilbo a couple seconds to remember the moment when in anger he had snapped and the terrified, shocked silence of the company. And Thorin said he didn’t know what they were talking about. Wait. “Wait. Tactic to disarm the company that you tried?”

Thorin chuckled, but said nothing. When Bilbo didn’t say anything, he looked over and nudged Bilbo’s shoulder. “I’m not very good with people outside of specific situations, what did you call it, I ‘don’t understand how sentients interact’ or something?”

“Interaction between sentients actually,” Bilbo instinctively corrected, not sure if he was ready to handle this new side to Thorin.

“My intention on approaching you today was to thank you,” Thorin continued, “but the course of this conversation makes me hope that you can help me with connecting with people. As prince, I had clear authority over my dwarves. When I worked as a blacksmith in the towns of men I was treated as an unwanted merchant. I do not know how to just… interact with people.”

“Do you need to?” Bilbo asked curiously, “I mean, if you are successful, you’ll be king. If you fail, you’ll probably be dead.”

Thorin was silent for a minute before standing, “You’re right.” And walked away.

Bilbo realized too late, Thorin might not need it, but he wanted it.

 

 

Staying in Mirkwood was no where near the experience of Rivendell. Constantly tired and strung out, ears always straining and heels starting to ache from the cold, damp stone. Suppressing his shivers for fear the elves would notice his teeth chattering. Counting and recounting and wishing desperately he could mark the various hallways holding his friends. The careful inching forward in the dark for fear of lighting a candle and getting spotted. The cramping of his stomach and how it wished to rebel whenever he managed to steal the smallest scrap of food.

The boundless faith of his Dwarven friends. The smiles that would light their face when he whispered greetings. The torn and oversized jacket that Bifur pushed on him. The relief in their eyes as he promised to get them out. The small, carefully saved bites from Dwalin’s meals. The smirks when he shared his plan; even the stupid complaints when they saw the barrels. Thorin’s proud nod, as if there was never even reason to doubt.

As if there was never even reason to doubt.

Bilbo paused as he went to pull the lever, realizing for the first time in this nightmare that he had forgotten to doubt himself. 

And then he was in the river.

 

 

Bilbo never would have considered it was the friends he left behind that scared him more than the dragon he was walking to face.

But something wasn’t right with Thorin. Beorn’s cabin had been a respite and despite the rockiness of their relationship, wherein Thorin apparently considered them friends and Bilbo thought that maybe they had started to approach a familiar acquaintance level, by the time the company had left Bilbo had given Thorin multiple ‘interaction’ lessons. It had been most amusing to see the other Dwarves reactions, heightened by Thorin’s own seriousness about the tasks. 

The point, of course, is that since leaving Laketown, Thorin wasn’t slightly socially misstepping Thorin anymore. 

Even the other dwarves noticed. Fili and Kili were quieter and walked with an air of wariness previously missing. Bofur would sit nearly on top of Bombur, all but cuddling into his side. Bombur was only too happy to wrap an arm around his older brother and look pleadingly over to his cousin, Bifur. Gloin become moody and refused to leave the fire alone, insisting it needed constant tending while Oin started checking and rechecking his supplies. Nori had taken to disappearing for long hours to scout around them. Ori’s quill hadn’t stopped moving since they made camp outside the secret door and Dori was hovering over everyone but Thorin. Dwalin was grumpier and glaring more. He also always seemed to be hovering near Bilbo as if the desolated surroundings were a threat. Balin was pretending nothing was wrong.

Balin, when approached, claimed it was in reaction to the dragon and the reality of their quest settling in. Bilbo knew better, the company was reacting to Thorin reverting to Prince Brat with a strange focus on the gold.

 

 

The Arkenstone glittered in the sun.

The Dwarves had stopped breathing, eyes all narrowed in on Thorin in worry. Thorin’s face twisted, anger and hate clear as he opened his mouth to shout.

“Don’t you dare,” Bilbo stated, voice ringing clear and unafraid. A rather nice trick, if he did say so himself. He rather thought it would be shaky and squeaky, but as he stepped forward and became the center of Thorin’s angry gaze, Bilbo realized he still had no fear from the Dwarf. Rather a relief after shaking all night with it. “I have sat back and watched as you shouted and ranted like a petty child. I watched as you ignored starvation and exhausted in favor of gold. I-“

“You what?” Thorin snarled, stepping forward, “You’re nothing more then a mere Halfling, a thief forced on us by the wizard showing his true colors at last. What right do you have to speak in front of me?”

For a second, Bilbo couldn’t think at all. His anger rose so swiftly and suddenly he had no words to pair with it. Marching forward, dodging Dwalin’s halfhearted grasp to stop him, Bilbo poked Thorin in his shiny metal breastplate and snarled, “What right you say, as if I have done nothing for you. What right, as if I just frolicked in at the last moment. What right? Thorin Oakenshield, you take that back this second!” Altogether, it was a rather nonsensical argument and as Thorin’s hands came up to grab him, Bilbo smacked them away like a baker would thieves at the window. “What happened to the Dwarf who picked up firewood so that his company would stop treating him like an elf?”

“I did not,” Thorin muttered, his eyes darting to his company before he remembered he was angry. 

For a brief second, Bilbo thought he recognized embarrassment before the madness returned. His eyes widened as he realized he could do this, he could still help his friend. “Yes you did! You also pouted when Elrond served us carrots! You spent the entirety of Rivendell acting like a small fauntling who missed their nap.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed and his hands tightened into fists, but there was a blush spreading on his face and Bilbo would bet his life ( _was betting his life_ ) that it was from indignation rather than rage, “Shut up you irritable Hobbit. I-“

“Well I have no time for your temper tantrums,” Bilbo firmly stated.

The silence went on long enough for Bilbo to become aware of it. The Dwarves atop the battlement refused to move a muscle for setting Thorin off and Thorin seemed to be waging an internal battle. Bilbo could tell the moment it ended as Thorin, without moving, seemed to shrink in on himself. His eyes widened and lips downturned. A slight tremble went through his frame.

“You haven’t done anything irreparable yet,” Bilbo whispered, leaning in to hug Thorin. It was soft and gentle, a reassurance. “And your reputation is only ruined with your company, you turned away from the wall when we shouted at each other, I’m sure no one heard anything below.”

“Aye,” Dwalin said, speaking up from behind Bilbo. “And it isn’t like we haven’t been wrapped up in the gold as much as you were.”

“Or never seen you do anything stupid,” Dori, surprisingly, spoke up. “After all, I still can’t believe you charged Azog while me and my brother were dangling off the tree branch.”

“Will you trade?” Echoed up from below, impatience clear in the human’s voice.

Bilbo looked over to see Nori leaning over the wall. “Well,” the Dwarf thief finally said, “they just look frustrated and annoyed to me. A little hot maybe, the sun isn’t doing them any favors.”

“The sun isn’t doing them any favors,” Thorin muttered under his breath, yet directly into Bilbo’s ears. 

Unable to stop the giggle from the ticklish sensation, Bilbo hunched forward and pushed away from Thorin, rubbing at his ear. Looking up to see everyone staring at him, Bilbo judged the heated words and situation officially dismantled, “Aren’t you going to answer them?”

For all the lighter air, Thorin still looked ashamed and unsure. He looked and met the eyes of every Dwarf in the company - from the trusting eyes of Kili to the weary eyes of Bifur. A nod from Nori at the edge of the wall had him stepping forward to answer.

 

 

Gandalf had once said, at the very beginning of the quest before Bilbo had signed anything, that if Bilbo returned, he would not be the same Hobbit as the one who left. Perhaps Gandalf had the gift of foresight or perhaps he just knew a thing or two about adventures. Either way, he was quite correct. 

When Bilbo had left, he had been the shining example of respectability. He never missed a meal nor turned away a guest. His clothes where carefully handpicked with nary a spot of dirt on them. His feet were as clean as could be and he always, without fail, gave the most spectacular birthday party every year. More than that, he refused to believe in such childish ideals as soul mates no matter what stories of his parents said.

Bilbo Baggins of the Shire would never have survived the Battle of the Five Armies. 

“Bilbo, are you going to stand there all day or do you think you might grace the Throne Room with your presence long enough for the ceremony?” Thorin asked, coming up beside Bilbo on the balcony. “A bit gruesome, perhaps,” Thorin mused, looking over the field where the battle had been, “but the Men and Elves think it should make good enough fertilizer.”

“I suppose, if it’s time for the crowning already,” Bilbo consented, but didn’t move. “I was just thinking about the Shire.”

Thorin hesitated, then quietly asked, “Did you wish to return?”

Rather than directly answer, Bilbo went off on a tangent, a small smile on his face, “As a child, I was quite proud that my parents were soul mates. A term similar to Dwarven Ones, I believe, wherein two Hobbits are born with one soul,” he added quickly as explanation. “Then they died during a bad winter and I refused to believe such a fanciful notion could exist. I reminded myself of all the fears and arguments and bad times, as if they outweighed the good.” Bilbo stopped, considering his words, “But now all I can think of is how my father showed my mother she had a home and my mother showed my father he could leave his. They brought each other to life in a way I think I was quite jealous of.”

Taking a half step forward, Thorin leaned against the railing and stared resolutely ahead, “Soul mates, then, are not quite the same as our Ones. Wandering as we were forced to, I heard more than one tale about Dwarven love. How obsessive we get, or how we meet the dwarf carved from our very same rock and know we are meant to be, or how dwarves can’t love unless it is their One.” He glanced at Bilbo to check if he was listening, and Bilbo gave an encouraging nod. “That is not it. Our One is our challenger. Our One is the person who can make us better ourselves, not because they force us, but because how can we not?” Thorin frowned, and struggled with his words in a way quite unlike himself, “While yes, it can be a lover, it is just as easily a shield brother or sister, or a sibling, or an enemy. It is the one who pushes us and shows us we can do better.” 

Thorin trailed off, at a loss to describe it and so Bilbo stepped in, “Then I think it is rather the same. Soul mates is a fancy term to describe someone who helps you achieve the potential within yourself you never even knew was there. Soul mates have nothing to do with the over romanticized picture I had in my youth.”

Thorin seemed disinclined to speak and Bilbo was quite happy to enjoy the sun and breeze the mountain typically hid from him. Winter was over. The lonely mountain was filled once more with the Dwarves of Erebor. Dwarves who had traveled through snow, unwilling to let anything stop them, once news had spread of the dragon’s death. Last week the first caravan from traders had arrived, bringing fresh food and cloth and tools for the rebuilding of both Erebor and Dale. Today, a prince would become king.

“You never answered me,” Thorin finally pointed out.

“Didn’t I?” Bilbo responded, smiling at Thorin’s annoyed expression. 

He was not sure what anyone of the Shire would think of him now, but Bilbo was quite pleased with himself.


End file.
